But if she believed in it, how could it be unbelievable?
Zeba bit her lip and went back to her needlework, unconvinced. He did not see what she could see. He didn’t understand that they lived in a house with no windows.
She watched the children carefully. She kept them close to her. They went from school to home, where she made sure they played at her feet while she tended to the cooking. She scrubbed at their skin like they were day-old dishes and repeatedly felt their foreheads for fever. The darkness could look like anything, she intuited. Kamal was of no help. It was up to her to protect her family.
Zeba lay awake in the nights, ready to meet the invisible trespasser and thinking of ways to fend it off. Though she could not always see it, she could smell it, like a piece of rotting meat so foul that it turned her stomach. Even the mice stayed away.
When Zeba cooked, she breathed in the fresh cilantro, garlic, cumin, and lemon. She tried to cleanse her senses of the stench that had settled into their walls.
By night, it was back.
The children didn’t see what Zeba could see. They acted no differently in the day, as long as their father wasn’t around. Basir’s laughter echoed through the street behind their home. He came home scraped up from soccer games but not broken. The girls helped each other with the chores around the house. Kareema and Shabnam brought sloshing pails of water from the well, each grabbing on to the warped metal handle. They sang folk songs just like other girls their age. Rima stumbled, crawled, and babbled like any other baby. None of them knew any better. Zeba was baffled by their immunity. Sometimes she was grateful for it. Other times she was angry that she was the only person in her family to feel the weight of the darkness.
ZEBA, TWO DAYS BEFORE THE EID HOLIDAY, STRUNG THE LIVING room carpet up in the courtyard to beat the dust from it. She held the end of her head scarf over her mouth and nose with one hand and thumped at the rug with a thick stick. Her husband had been gone since morning. She hoped he’d gone off to work though it was more than possible he was off drinking and smoking what little money he earned.
She started from one corner and moved across the rectangle systematically. The carpet wobbled pathetically under her blows.
Zeba moved her aim downward and dealt the carpet a few more sharp smacks. When her stick snapped in two, she let out a sharp cry, then picked up a broom handle and took up again where she’d left off. Thump, thump, thump. She grunted between blows, puffs of dust rising violently from the tapestry like tubercular coughs.
When she got down to the last square foot of rug, Zeba stopped. She was panting. Her shoulder burned, and she sat on an overturned plastic bucket to catch her breath and let the muscles of her arm rest.
A bitter chill had settled over the village. Even indoors, the children’s fingers blanched with cold. She took the carpet inside and spread it out on the floor, its colors no brighter than they were before she’d attacked its wool fibers. This, for some reason she could not put into words, brought tears to her eyes.
Zeba blew on her hands and rubbed them together. She turned when she heard the door clang behind her. Kamal unwound his black scarf and tossed a bag of walnuts and raisins on the table. Zeba smiled weakly at him, thinking his timing could not have been better.
“How perfect,” Zeba had declared, reaching for the kettle. “Basir’s just brought back some fresh bread. I’ll make some tea. It’ll warm our bellies.”
“It’s not for them. They can eat what’s left from last night. I bought this for myself,” he declared.
Something in Kamal’s voice prickled Zeba’s skin. She looked up, abruptly. Kamal averted his eyes just as she turned to him. She watched closely as Kamal hung his hat and jacket on a hook in the hallway. She saw the slouch of his shoulders, the defiance in his chin, and the shadows around his eyes. How long had they been there without her seeing? She could barely breathe, her throat thick and tight.
Her voice faltered.
Kamal watched her from the corner of his eye. He did not move toward her or away from her. They stood in measured space, precisely six steps apart from each other, his feet planted firmly on the carpet she’d tried to clean just moments ago. He could see the rare silver threads in her hair. She could almost feel the stubble on his face, the face that had rubbed against hers just last night when Kamal had pressed himself into his wife despite her small pleas of protest. Zeba’s dusty fingers flittered to her lips.
But he’s my husband. How could this be?
It was in him, that thing she could not name. That thing she could not speak.
“Zeba,” he said, turning his broad back to her. “Don’t look for trouble.”
CHAPTER 12
ZEBA WAS BROUGHT TO A ROOM NEXT TO THE PRISON’S ADMINISTRATIVE office, a room just large enough for a table and two chairs. One large window looked out onto the fenced-in yard and blank walls. Zeba took a seat across the table from a sable-eyed boy who looked as if he should be holding a schoolbag instead of a briefcase. He had short, curly hair and a smooth face.
Oh, Rafi. What were you thinking?
The boy cleared his throat before greeting her. He put a hand on his chest and nodded his head as he introduced himself.
“Good afternoon. My name is Yusuf and I’ll be your attorney. We have lots to discuss.”
Zeba could not believe this was the lawyer her brother had hired. He looked so young he should be defending nothing more serious than a goalpost. Her heart fell; she would certainly be hanged before the end of summer.
“I’ve read through the arrest registry and the police report. But I’m here to listen to you. Where do you want to begin?”
Zeba rested her forehead on her palm and stared at the table. Yusuf was unsure how to interpret this.
“Perhaps I should go first?” he offered.
Yusuf started to pace the small room. He was shocked, he told her, that she wasn’t killed immediately by the villagers or by her husband’s family.
“It’s just not . . . it’s not the way things are done. I can’t believe they simply shrugged their shoulders and decided to hand you over to the police when we all know who really polices the villages. Completely unexpected and unprecedented, and we have to focus on that because that’s important. That’s quite critical, actually.”
Her village was not being noble or particularly lenient, Zeba thought, but she kept that to herself. This man knew nothing about her husband or her neighbors.
Yusuf described the barriers he’d faced in even getting this far, in setting up a time to meet with her. He had pored over the prison’s file and the police reports and decided they were in for a tough fight. He needed to talk with her family and anyone she could think of who would speak on her behalf. There were many procedural codes that hadn’t been followed, he emphasized. He slipped a finger into the knot of his tie and tugged at it impatiently, as if it was preventing him from talking as fast as he needed to.
Zeba wondered if there could be some mistake. Was it possible Rafi had hired a different lawyer for her? It would make much more sense if this man were actually assigned to a different inmate, one of the women accused of falling in love, perhaps. He looked like he would be much more suited to the problems of the lovesick.
Yusuf pulled a chair opposite her and met her eyes. Zeba instinctively turned away.
“I need to know what happened. I need to know everything about that day and what kind of man your husband was.”
Zeba met his questions with silence. He explained politely, then urgently, why she needed to cooperate with him. Zeba said nothing and wondered which of her cellmates would fall for him first, Mezhgan or Nafisa. Maybe even cool-as-ice Latifa would melt for his boyish charms.
YUSUF RETURNED TWICE MORE AFTER THAT VISIT. ZEBA STILL refused to breathe a word. She moved her attention to the wooden table before her, her eyes tracing the pattern of the grain like a mouse through a maze. Yusuf could read nothing from the expression on her face. He cleaned the dust from his glasses with
the end of his tie, waiting for a response.
“I’m here to help you. Do you not understand that? Do you know what will happen to you if—or maybe I should say when—you’re found guilty of these charges? Khanum, we’ll be meeting with the judge sometime soon and you’ve given me nothing to work with, no way to defend you or . . . or . . . or . . .”
Yusuf threw his hands in the air. He wore his brown suit today, the same one he’d worn the first time he’d visited his client. Zeba had noticed its even stitching, the careful pleats in the front. This was not a suit purchased locally. Yusuf was not dressed like any man from her village. His words, his clothes, the way he looked at her—everything about him smelled of something foreign.
“I have a question,” Zeba said flatly. She looked up at Yusuf.
He paused.
“Where are you from?” she asked. Yusuf was silent, confounded by his client’s simplicity. Her brother had promised that she was a good woman, that she was a gentle, loving mother. She was not a killer, he promised.
“Khanum, what does it matter where I’m from? Mazar, Kabul, Paghman. What difference would it make?”
“It makes all the difference in the world, young man. If you are not from my village, you don’t know what fruits will grow in my soil. You think you can plant an orange tree in my neighborhood? It’ll die before you finish wiping the sweat from your forehead. Because you don’t know where I come from.”
“I’m not talking about planting trees, Khanum. I’m talking about murder and jail and death. I’m talking about ways to defend you from some serious charges.” Yusuf was frustrated. Did she not understand the gravity of the situation?
“Defending me? I assume you think there’s hope for me to leave this place.” Her head nodded in the direction of the wall.
“You don’t think so?” Yusuf leaned back in the chair—at least she was talking.
“I’m a woman. I was found with my husband’s blood on my hands. My husband’s body was behind our house and no one saw what happened to him. I do not know where you are from, sahib, but in my village, where I am from, forgiveness is not on the table. This . . . this demands blood.”
“Blood.”
“Yes,” Zeba affirmed.
“But they didn’t kill you then. They sent you here.”
“Yes,” she agreed. The police chief had kept her in handcuffs and seen to her transfer. A husband killer was not someone he wanted to keep in his custody. Good old Hakimi had assigned his best officers to drive her to the prison that very evening, before Kamal’s family got wind of it. Hakimi knew how these things worked. If Kamal’s family was after her for vengeance, they would find a way to get it.
“And you think I know nothing about where you are from?” Yusuf said coolly.
“If you did, you wouldn’t be wasting your time here.”
“You have children who are without a mother or father right now. If you don’t think you deserve a chance at seeing them again, then, please, tell me to pack my briefcase and leave. Tell your brother he doesn’t have to worry about you anymore. Go on, save us all a lot of headache and just say it,” he dared.
Zeba pursed her lips. She said nothing. An Afghan who’d lived abroad was worse than a foreigner. They came back thinking they knew everything and were anxious to prove it.
Yusuf stuffed his notebook into his briefcase and snapped it closed before standing.
“All right then. It’s time to meet the judge. You’ve not said much to help me. All I ask is that you cooperate with me once we get in there. Don’t make this any harder than it is.”
He led her down the hallway and out the building to a smaller structure a few hundred feet from the prison. It was dark inside and smelled of stale ash.
When the judge opened the door and motioned them in, Yusuf gave her one last glare.
Zeba’s face remained blank. Her nerves were already frayed, and her lawyer seemed bent on pushing her over the edge.
The judge’s office was a narrow, windowless room with a scuffed oak desk at one end. At the other end was a small coffee table and a floral-patterned love seat. Zeba stood by the door while Yusuf took a seat on the sofa. The qazi, a thin-faced man in his sixties, frowned at Zeba as he thumbed his way through the beads of a tasbeh.
The prosecutor sat on an armchair across from Yusuf. He was in his early forties at least, judging by the flecks of gray in his hair. He looked distinctly more comfortable than Yusuf in the office, which gave Zeba a sinking feeling.
“You and your attorney have had time to consider the charges made against you,” the qazi said. I hope you appreciate the gravity of the crime here.”
Yusuf leaned forward, his haphazard notes in his lap, words connected by lines and circles.
“Your Honor, indeed we do appreciate the gravity of the charges, and it’s for that reason that I ask for more time with my client. I have had some challenges getting enough information to adequately represent her and the events of the day in question.”
The prosecutor laughed. There was a thin manila folder on the coffee table in front of him with Zeba’s name written on it. Zeba tried not to stare at it.
“Challenges? What challenges? You’ve been able to meet with her freely. Her husband’s family has done nothing to get in your way, from what I understand.”
The judge shook his head. He was unaccustomed to talk like Yusuf’s.
“Indeed, Your Honor, but my client has been understandably grief-stricken by her husband’s death and—”
“Grief-stricken?” The judge leaned forward, his eyes narrowing on Zeba and forcing hers to the floor. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
The prosecutor said nothing. By the way the judge was reacting, he didn’t need to.
“Yes, sir,” Yusuf continued, stealing a glance over his shoulder to make sure Zeba was behaving herself. “Respectfully, this woman has lost her husband and she’s been taken away from her children. I ask for an extension of thirty days as outlined in . . .”
“That’s ridiculous,” the prosecutor declared. “There’s no need. There’s nothing you’re going to accomplish in thirty days that can refute what we have here in front of us now. Why would you want to waste our time? You know as well as the rest of us that she’s guilty. Do your job and ask for mercy.”
The judge’s eyes moved from Yusuf’s cleanly shaven face to the scribbling on his notebook and the knot of his tie.
“I’ve not met you before, young man. I don’t know where you think you are, but if you want to do this woman a favor, I suggest you get to know how things work around here. You’re supposed to help your client express remorse for what she’s done. I’ll have to agree with the prosecution. Haven’t you read the statement she made when the police brought her in? She’s guilty as guilty can be. We shouldn’t be wasting our time with nonsense.”
Yusuf bit his lip.
Yes, he’d read the statement, but it was an obvious sham. It had been written on her behalf by a police officer who claimed she was unable to write herself. At the bottom of the page had been Zeba’s blue thumbprint.
“Your Honor, there are problems with the statement.”
“What problems with the statement?”
“For one, it wasn’t written by this woman. It was written by a police officer when she’s literate enough that she should have written it herself.”
Zeba kept her gaze lowered, but she could feel the qazi’s eyes on her. She focused on the side of the love seat, her eyes staring intently at the blue and gray flowers. The material had once been lustrous, she could tell. It was mostly worn now, its colors faded.
“So they wrote it for her. What difference does it make? Maybe she was too grief-stricken to pick up the pen herself,” the prosecutor suggested, as he uncrossed and recrossed his legs.
She’d been interviewed for an hour by the police on that first night. Two officers had pressed her with question after question, threatening to beat her or worse for being so uncooperative.<
br />
You killed him. Just tell us why.
You’re not going to get away with this. It’ll be easier on you if you tell the truth.
Your own husband. Your only hope for mercy is if you cooperate.
Zeba had refused to admit anything. She was too scared to say much and kept repeating the same few words.
I didn’t kill him.
By the time they slipped the paper in front of her and pressed her blue-inked thumb onto it, she was in tears and shaking. If they’d taken her behind the police station and shot her, she wouldn’t have been shocked.
“And second, she’s not expressed to me what’s written in that so-called confession. It’s not a valid statement, Your Honor, and shouldn’t be considered as part of the case against her.”
“It’s a signed confession! They clearly recorded that she said she decided to pick up the hatchet and strike her husband’s head because she wanted to kill him. Her thumbprint is on the bottom of the page.”
Zeba almost felt sorry for Yusuf, the way the judge spoke to him. It was starting to get to him. She could see it in the set of Yusuf’s jaw.
It was funny how she could pick up on something so subtle in a man she barely knew. Why hadn’t she detected more in her husband? Had she been always been so blind? What else was she blind to?
“And you, Khanum, do you have anything to add in your defense? The murder of your husband, this is a very heavy charge.”
Zeba shook her head, her ears buzzing. The room seemed to dim. She was there again, locked in that moment. She hadn’t been able to go near her husband’s body though she’d wanted desperately to close his eyes. They were bright and vengeful even as his lips grayed. His mouth had been half open in a look of surprise. Even as she’d backed away, shaking, she’d thought it was terrible that he would die with that dumbfounded, angry look on his face. He’d been such a handsome man once.
The prosecutor was talking, but Zeba wasn’t listening. She tried to keep her eyes off the manila folder. It might as well have been a noose.
A House Without Windows Page 9
